


The Ivory Bluebird

by Salina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Happy Ending, AU, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Thinks Sherlock Holmes is Dead, Lestrade cares about our bois, M/M, PTSD John, Post-Reichenbach, SIKE, Sherlock Holmes To The Rescue, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Build, Triggers, Wise Waiting Room Lady, get ready for feels, he isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salina/pseuds/Salina
Summary: “Hello?”“Sherlock? It’s Molly. Listen, you need to come back early. I know you still have a while, but it’s John. Something, something happened. You need to come home.”





	1. Hands, Be Still

In all of John’s life, he had never felt such a heart-wrenching sadness, deep loneliness that reverberated with him to his core. 

In all of John’s life, it had never been this bad. 

Sure, he had his fair share of moments when he was down, but he came back up from it every time. This time, though, it seemed he was stuck in the same place- the same low and musty place that he had seen every day for the past year. He quickly ran a hand through his unwashed hair, trying to distract himself from the thoughts. Of course, nothing worked. He flipped through the TV channels mindlessly, knowing full well he could be doing something productive. He tried getting in the dating scene again for a while and even met a nice girl by the name of Mary, but things in the end just didn’t work out. They kept in touch seldomly, when he wasn’t in a completely terrible mood. He kept going between stations, trying to ignore the influx of commercials that taunted him.

_ Jump into savings! _

Next.

_ Get ready for the season with our new fall collection! _

Are you kidding me?

_ Bag of cement, only 17.99! _

Why is there nothing on?!?

He turned off the TV and slammed the remote on the end table furiously. It was as if the universe was getting back at him for some unforeseen reason. What reason exactly, he didn’t know. He didn’t feel like he did anything to deserve it, to deserve this. John sighed and leaned forward, setting his face in his hands. 

…

“Taken down in a little less than a year, I must say, I’m impressed, little brother,” Mycroft flipped through a series of paper, grinning. 

“It wasn’t like it was difficult.”

Sherlock stretched, placidly putting his hands behind his head. They would need to wait to make sure nobody else popped up, which was next to guaranteed with the size of Moriarty’s empire. A surge of followers rising from the darkest crevices, seeking revenge but falling short in numbers. Child’s play. 

“How long?” Sherlock asked, sitting up. “How long must we wait now?”

“I would give it another year at least. We need to be sure they’re all eradicated.”

Sherlock groaned. “That’s far too long, sitting around for a year!”

“Just keep solving the cases,” Mycroft suggested. “What you’ve been doing?”

“It’s not… the same.”

“As to what?”

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. He would never admit he needed John, but some times he came very, very close. Solving cases on his own was too bittersweet for his liking. It reminded him far too much of what it was life before- before when he was constantly on at least some sort of drug, or on a nicotine high from the influx of cigarettes that ran him poor. Before when he sat in silence for weeks in his mind palace, not eating or drinking then falling ill because of it. Then wondering why he as ill and not having a competent voice to explain it to him.

“I need something more,” Sherlock said, rubbing his temples. “A new case.”

“Is this not enough for you?”

“Oh, Mycroft, it could never be enough.”

Mycroft sighed folding his hands.

“Unless something comes up and you’re needed, I’m afraid you will remain ‘dead’.”

“What about…” Sherlock trailed off, but Mycroft seemed to catch on.

“We haven’t heard anything,” he said. “We assume things are fine. If anything changed we’d tell you, you know that-”

Sherlock scoffed.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Maybe so,” Mycroft said, “but if it were serious then maybe it would be a different story.”

…

  
  


Time and time again the therapist said the same thing to John. 

“Grief is normal, grief is what makes us human, John.”

But each time she seemed to purposefully leave out the part where she meant to say-

“But you’re still not getting over it.”

She would never flat-out say it, but she was probably thinking it the entire time. Who hasn’t been? Poor old John Watson cooped up in an apartment by himself, too sad and lonely to be bothered with anything or anyone else. She insisted they see more frequently, stating something or another about his worsening condition, and concerning behavior. For some reason, it irritated him to hear that. Everything irritated him. So? He mumbled something along the lines of “not your damn charity case” and walked out.

He hasn’t been back since.

The nightmares reached their peak since they began. They weren’t all the typical war dreams, however. They began veering off into a different direction, one that somehow was worse. It was bad enough watching Sherlock fall once, but seeing it over and over again every other night just drove him mad. He eventually stopped sleeping, only taking sleeping pills when he needed to. It was a poor way to live, but it was the only thing that seemed to make it better. 

_ It would never be good again. _

John rubbed his eyes, shaking away the thoughts. The more he thought, the more often the terrible thoughts trickled in. The ones begging for him to end it, to stop the endless cycle of pain that never got any better no matter what he tried. Mrs. Hudson sent multiple welfare checks on him after he failed to stay in touch. It got frustrating after a few times, other people began to attempt to reach him. Mycroft, Molly, even Lestrade on a few occasions. They all said something along the lines of “we’re worried, you’re not acting the same.” It was almost insulting if anything. They stopped calling eventually.  _ They don’t care about you anymore,  _ the small voice in the back of his head mocked him. _ Now’s the time. _

Usually, John would opt to ignore the nagging voice, like he had been more most of his life. But for the first time, in the darkness of his little flat on Leinster Gardens, he began to listen.

...

“Hello?” Sherlock held the phone up to his ear distractedly with his shoulder, working with some loose paperwork. 

“Hi- Hi Sherlock, erm, I know I don’t call often but-”

“Yes, I’m aware, Molly.”

“Listen, you need to come back early. I know you still have a while, but it’s John. Something, something happened. You need to come home.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped.

“Wait, what? What happened, Molly?” He held the phone up to his hear with his hand now, completely alert. Molly sounded scared, something that wasn’t her nature.

“He left a note for us, they have the police searching but they can’t find him. They need you,” she said shakily.  _ What kind of note? _

“Molly, what did the note say?” He said slowly. 

…

John’s hand shook slightly as he wrote out the words. It wasn’t even his tremoring hand that seemed to shake.

“Dear friends,” he whispered as he wrote. He stopped, then erased. He didn’t have any friends.

“To whoever has the misfortune of finding this note,” he said as he rewrote. “You will come to find that I’m no longer here. The past year has been nothing but a hopeless, meaningless existence, only enriched by the frequent police visits asking if I’m still alive. After months of consideration, I finally have met the end of what I could only call a sad, sad life that for a short while was almost worth continuing. Of course, that’s behind me and the reason for it is below me, and I can’t…” 

John breathed in deeply, trying to keep himself from crying. 

“...go on any more.”

…

“My only remaining hope is that I might finally get to see him one more time. I’m sorry for everything, and to everyone. Maybe now you won’t have to worry about me.” Molly said sadly. “Many regrets, John H. Watson.”

Sherlock stared off into nothingness, his mind betraying him over the words he just heard. 

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can, don’t wait up for me,” Sherlock said, rushing out the door. “Get me all the information you can, and hurry!”

As he hung up, Mycroft joined him outside. The private jet was already ready for take-off. He had to hand it to his brother, he was efficient. Sometimes he wondered if he too cared for John.

“Aren’t you coming?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft shook his head.

“Leading operations from north of the city. We have all the best people working on it.”

Sherlock nodded his head, but as he went to board Mycroft caught him by the shoulder.

“Be careful, you’re returning back from the dead after all.”

Sherlock nodded curtly, then boarded. His mind was racing, and it seemed like London couldn’t be close enough.


	2. Unraveling

John turned the corner, his collar up against the heavy wind. It was unusually cold for August, but nothing too insane by any means. He was well aware the entire city of London would be looking for him, depending on when they found the note. He had a plan set in place, but it happened to be almost across town. He wasn’t mad though if it gave him one last time to look at the city. He wiped his eyes again, unable to tell if it was the cold wind or his emotions besting him. He passed by his favorite shop, full of antiques of which you would never find anywhere else. He suspected that’s where his pocket watch came from, the pocket watch Sherlock gave him on Christmas all that time ago. His heart turned in his chest at the recollection. That was so long ago, how could it have been that long? 

Like a spigot was turned, memories began to flood John’s mind. All the good times he and Sherlock shared, like their nerf gun war or three AM violin sessions. It became increasingly obvious now that the tears that stained his cheeks were that from emotion, but he didn’t care. He turned suddenly and decided last second to take a shortcut to his destination. A small alley placed almost randomly between a jewelry and bike repair shop. He looked down the darkened area, then from amidst the darkness a shadow lept across. John blinked, making sure that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. As he carefully made his way through the alleyway, there was no sign of anybody, not a trace. He shrugged it off and continued down.

_ What’s the worse that could happen? They kill me?  _ He thought, slightly amused. 

It was hard to believe there was even room for him to vaguely think a positive thought, but here was laughing at his pain. It was dark, even for him. 

…

Sherlock had leaped out of the sight of the darkened figure, hoping he wasn’t seen. Even so, it was dark enough that his face would’ve been hidden. The figure looked somewhat familiar, but not enough to be of any concern to him as he plenty other things on his mind at the time. 

“John, where are you?” he whispered to himself angrily. 

He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

…

“We need eyes in the air! What’s the holdup?” Lestrade stormed into the camera room heatedly. 

“Sir we have a… new development,” a worker said. Lestrade groaned.

“I have you a job and you better bloody do it!”

“Sir please come look.”

Lestrade walked over to the camera, not expecting anything of importance. He scanned the screen, then saw a familiar figure in the corner of the screen. 

“Mother of Mary, it can’t be!”

“Multiple sighting in all our districts, sir. He’s back.”

He laughed breathlessly, putting his hands on his head. 

“This is fantastic! Perfect timing, ah, that genius!”

“We have reason to believe that he’s tracking John Watson, for us, sir,” the man said, looking back toward the screen. He flashed between multiple shots, each showing a man on a mission.

“Makes our lives much, much easier,” Lestrade laughed. “But don’t think I don’t expect all our men on hand with this, he may be good but we need all the help we can get- so get back to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he walked out of the room, he grinned to himself. It was a terrible time to be smiling, especially while a man’s life was at stake. But the fact Sherlock came back from the dead to save John Watson was something of an entirely different nature. 

…

The wind was picking up, enough that John head to hold onto his flat cap to keep it from blowing away. He was nearly to the bridge, which was bittersweet to him for some reason. He should be happy, that soon he won’t need to deal with any more of the crippling pain. Any more grief. 

Any more life without Sherlock.

The structure was in sight now, the tall red bridge where he had been so many times before. He didn’t know why he had gravitated so much toward it in the past, but maybe now this was the reason. This was the place he was meant to die. He shoved his freezing hands into his coat pockets, walking up to the rail. Shakily, he stepped onto the elevated stone and peered over the edge. A chill went down his spine. 

“This is it,” he said to himself. “This… this is it.”

The water churned madly below, frantic almost. He could hear the dull roar of the rushing water, white and foamy as it shot through. Almost impossible to fight, a guaranteed death. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? He placed his hand on the cold railing, swinging one leg over, then the other. He held on with both hands behind him. He was hesitating. Why? It was as if something was holding him back. He looked behind him, feeling as though someone was watching. But nobody was, just passersbys who had better things to do than interfere with the man on the bridge. He sighed deeply, turning back to face the water. He closed his eyes, feeling the sharp wind on his tear-stained face. He held his breath, then finally, let go.

Just before he hit the water, a voice called out,

“John!”

…

Sherlock sprinted to where John had disappeared over the edge. He was too late, how could he have been too late?! He rushed to jump where he had when a hand grabbed his collar, pulling him backward. He hit the ground hard, knocking all the wind from his lungs. He gasped.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lestrade shouted. 

“He-he I- I need to-” Sherlock gasped wildly, trying to scramble to his feet. 

“Calm down calm down, I’m sorry- we have a team down there fetching him right now so don’t you dare jump too,” he said, lowering his voice. 

“I was too late,” Sherlock croaked. Tears pricked at his eyes. “I… couldn’t-”

“You did.” Lestrade helped Sherlock up, Sherlock still out of breath from the whole ordeal. “If it weren’t for you, we couldn’t have tracked you to find him.”

It occurred to Sherlock suddenly that he was supposed to be dead. He brushed it off for the time being. 

“Already, come on let’s get down there,” Lestrade said, helping Sherlock to his feet. 

They rushed down the street to where the ground meets with the edge of the bridge. Sherlock could see the crowd of people, on the shore, some were jogging along. 

They hadn’t found him.

In the heat of the moment. Sherlock rushed from Lestrades’s grasp, sprinting toward the water. 

“Stop him!”

Officers dispersed, some still following the river while others pursued Sherlock. He maneuvered past them, running down the side then leaping into the water. The cold water knocked the breath out of him, but he continued, pushing his limbs to the brink of exhaustion as he kicked with the current. At first, he thought it would be impossible to find him, but judging the time, where he jumped, he was able to actively judge where John was. Something brushed his arm, to which he grabbed onto. He recognized the vinyl material immediately. 

…

Sherlock pulled John onto the shore under his arms, John was completely unconscious. He set him down gently, ignoring the fact he was bleeding and freezing. Officers and medical personnel gathered around. 

“Please please, John? John wake up!”

“Mr. Holmes, we have it from here,”

“No- no he’s my friend I need to help him!”

“We’re trained,” the EMT explained calmly. “And you need to be looked at as well. Trust me, he’s in good hands.”

Sherlock looked back sadly at his friend, he could only see his hand from the crowd of people around him. The hand that helped so many people, saved so many lives. The only thing that brought him some sort of peace was the EMT yelling, 

“We have a pulse!”

…

The waiting room was empty. The receptionist said it was the first time in weeks so little people were in there, maybe even months. She was nice or at least seemed like it. Sherlock hadn’t bothered deducing anything about her, besides the small first-glance details. He was far too preoccupied with his thoughts to even consider it. He bounced his foot on his crossed leg, staring at a ridiculously advertised dieting magazine. He had to momentarily change his look to make sure he wouldn’t get unwanted attention, so he parted his hair down the middle, wore black-framed glasses and had on just a simple pair of black jeans and a zip-up sweater. Mycroft nearly had an asthma attack laughing, saying he was “reliving his emo phase from school”. 

Which he did not have, mind you.

A few people came and went, visiting elderly relatives or what have you or having a case of the sniffles checked out because the walk-in next door was closed. Each time a door opened, he couldn’t help but perk up in anticipation. Each time was a let down though, of course. An older lady had come in around ten, sitting down quietly in the row of seats across from him. He prayed she wouldn’t try making small talk.

“Nasty weather out there, isn’t it?” She chuckled. 

Sherlock glanced outside, it was downpouring and he didn’t notice. 

“Oh, yes I suppose it is,” he replied. 

“Visiting someone?”

Another door opened, but only a woman and her child walked out. Sherlock must’ve perked up again because the woman was smiling fondly.

“Nervous are we?”

“That’s one word for it,” Sherlock mumbled, sinking back down into his chair. 

“Who is she?”

“Pardon?”

“Or he, or whatever you kids like these days,” she laughed. Sherlock half-smiled.

“My friend, John. He came in this morning but I haven’t heard anything back.”

“Do you love him?”

Sherlock was taken aback at the abrupt comment. “What?”

“Do you love him?” She repeated. 

Sherlock wished so badly to come up with some remark about how love is a defect or something along those lines, but he for some odd reason chose not to. In fact, something entirely different came from his mouth.

“I don’t know.”

He was next to shocked at himself, but the woman seemed tickled to death. 

“Well I’m no psychologist, but I can tell you care very, very deeply for John. And I’m sure he feels the same way.” 

Sherlock looked down and raised his eyebrows. Did he? Does caring mean you love someone? The questions ran at speeds unmeasurable through Sherlock’s mind. For the first time, he had no answers to any of them.

“Caring. Such an odd gesture, wouldn’t you think?” He said suddenly. “But what does it mean?”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, dear.”

“Does caring mean you love somebody?”

“Sometimes,” she said wistfully. “Love them as a friend, a brother, a mother, or a lover as my Papa always said. Sometimes you say that because it’s the only way to prove just how deeply you care.”

“How do you know when it’s romantic though?”

Sherlock, as a child, had nearly lost his mind over what it meant to be on love. How you knew, how it affected you. He never did figure out just what it meant, as for the first time the answer wasn’t exactly found in a school book. 

“Oh you just know, hun. You can feel it.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know if I feel it. I don’t feel much these days.”

“Do you think about him a lot?”

“Well, yes-”

“Look at him?”

“Yes but-”

“Get this weird feeling when you see him?”

“Sometimes? I don’t know!” Sherlock said, frustrated. “It’s all so foreign.”

“When you see him, just think about it. The answer will always be no until you ask.”

Sherlock pondered the words, tapping his foot gently. Before he had the chance to respond, the side door opened.

“Mr. Holmes? You may come in now.”

“Remember what I said,” the lady called as Sherlock sprung up. “Just think about it.”

“Thank you very much, I just might.”

He flashed her a smile, then without hesitation rushed through the door. 

…

“How long? How long did you plan on keeping this from me?”

John was awake and alert, sitting up in his bed when Sherlock came in. His clothes had been soaked, so Sherlock brought some for him from the apartment, though there was a fair chance they were Sherlock’s. His hair was disheveled, which greatly matched his condition at the moment. 

“A year at least,” Sherlock said quietly. “We had to be sure.”

“We? Other’s knew? 

“Just a couple.”

John frowned. 

“Who?”

“Mycroft and Molly, that’s it though I swear. Listen, I know we have a lot to talk about,” Sherlock said quickly. “But I think we have something else to discuss first, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes but-”

“No, no don’t say that. John, you tried to kill yourself. We can’t,  _ I _ can’t sugarcoat this and you know that.” 

John was quiet, looking at the other side of the room distantly. Sherlock sighed, making sure not to work himself up. Not now. 

“I just need to know why that’s all.”

“I don’t know,” John said. His voice was shaky. “It was just… it was so hard without you. Everyone expected me to take your place as if anyone could.”

“I’m… flattered but what happened? Something else happened.”

“I couldn’t do it,” he laughed dryly. “People found out soon enough and the media turned. They always turn. Wrote these horrible headlines, people laughed at me.”

Sherlock looked down, noticing he was gripping the blankets on John’s bed a bit aggressively. He let go and exhaled softly, trying not to let John see his anger. 

“John, I’m so sorry.”

“They were right you know,” he said, staring at the wall blankly. “I could never be like you, no matter how hard I tried. Nobody could.”

John seemed to break his trance, looking at Sherlock with a mix of emotions even Sherlock himself couldn’t decipher. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, truly I-” his voice broke. “I just couldn’t do it.”

Sherlock without hesitation reached over, wrapping his arms around a very emotional John. He felt tears prickle at his own eyes in fact as he pulled his friend closer to him. He felt John shake. 

“Promise me,  _ promise me,  _ that you will never try anything like this again. Do you hear me?”

“I promise…” John whispered into the other’s chest. 

They stayed like that for a while, John crying in Sherlock’s arms while Sherlock tried his very best to hold himself together. If he was being honest, it felt like he was tearing at the seams. John’s hair brushed the side of his face, which he prayed wasn’t wet from the tears continuously threatening to spill over. The words from the woman in the waiting room danced around his mind.  _ Just think about it. _

Then without warning, that’s when he began to cry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to be two parts and look at me go! So yeah I guess there's more to come so hang tight. Also, if you're wondering what John meant about the locket, the violin, and nerf-gun war, then check out my other story "No Such Thing, No Such Thing"! If you like this you will definitely like that. I hope! Something to keep you occupied while I try to update this again. Thank you guys so much! <3


	3. This Place is a Shelter

The months following the incident were hectic. After John had been cleared from the hospital he was forced through a tedious therapy program, including hours upon hours of group sessions, activities, and even more group sessions. It was torture. Not only that but it was a residential stay for a large portion of the time. It wasn’t until a week ago they had finally let him out.

“Bloody macaroni art!” He grumbled to Sherlock on the way out, “They made me do macaroni art!”

“Do people still do that?”

“Yes, Sherlock, apparently people still do that.”

The past few days had been tense as well, not only from the incident with John but of course from the fact Sherlock had literally returned from the dead in the process. The media was hopping, so much that news of John hadn’t surfaced. 

“I do think Lestrade might have had something to do with it,” Sherlock said lightly as they left the building. John shrugged. 

“Well, either way, it’s a miracle.”

“Yes, I agree coming back from almost certain death-”

“I was talking about the news not finding out.”

“Oh? Oh- oh right. Right, yes.”

John chuckled. It felt strange to laugh, he hadn’t done it in so long without having at least some level of sarcasm accompanied. There was a brief silence following as the two waited for a cab before Sherlock spoke.

“How many left?” He asked, nudging a loose pebble with his shoe.

“This was the last one.”

“Really? So you’re done?”

“Sure hope.”

Sherlock nodded absently, gesturing a cab down the road. John put his hands in his pockets, then felt something damp in his jacket. He pulled out a limp piece of paper, staring at the smeared ink for a few seconds before realizing what it was. 

“Hey, Sherlock, look,” he said, holding up the paper to Sherlock. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and studied the paper before realizing what it was. 

“That’s the receipt from Baskerville, isn’t it? From that restaurant.”

“Yeah, it was in my coat,” John chuckled. “I can’t believe I still have it.”

As the cab pulled over, Sherlock quickly opened the door to let John in first. A small gesture, but it made him smile a bit nonetheless. 

“That was proof, you know.”

“Proof of what?” John sitting down in the seat. 

“Proof you can get along just fine on your own, you just don’t always realize it.”

John went silent, mainly from the shock at the statement. He glanced over at Sherlock, looking incredibly satisfied with himself. He furrowed his brows, and the entire way back to the flat couldn’t help but wonder what all the statement meant. 

…

Love. The strangest concept known to man, it’s funny almost how vast it can be sometimes. You love your family, but not the same way you love your husband or wife. You love your job, but not the same way you love someone’s smile. It’s all relative, and compared to each other one may not be lesser or greater than the other. Sherlock sat in his chair, silently gazing out the far window overlooking the street. John was out, gathering his items to move back in. Why? Out of all the times in his life where love has been brought up does he just now start to wonder if that’s what he’s feeling?  _ Do you love him?  _ He set his chin in his hand, frustrated at the situation. It wouldn’t be outlandish to say he loved him as a friend if such a thing exists, but as something more? He was torn from his thoughts by the door opening. A very disgruntled John walked through, dragging a bag behind him. 

“No, no it’s fine I got it!” He grunted, barely squeezing the oversized luggage through the doorway. 

“Oh, sorry.”

John yelped as the bag went through suddenly, causing him to fall forward. Sherlock tried his hardest not to laugh until John yelled frustratedly into the floor. Then he started laughing. 

“Welcome back to 221b,” Sherlock stood up, picking up one of the bags off the floor. “Please enjoy your stay.”

John rubbed his elbow as he clambered to his feet. 

“Not like I couldn’t say the same,” he said with a quick smile. Sherlock nodded his head down, handing John the bag. 

“I changed a few things, hope you don’t mind.”

Sherlock snickered as John looked up quickly, almost scared of what he’d see. Of course, there was nothing too terrible of what Sherlock had done. In his time he wasn’t visiting John or working on a loose case, he took to cleaning. It was tedious at first, but once he got into the habit he found it to be quite relaxing. He had even moved a few furniture items around. Once John seemed to notice he looked relieved. 

“It’s nice,” he said finally. “Sorry I didn’t keep things up to standard… well with… you know.”

“Don’t apologize for that,” Sherlock said sternly. “I’m only grateful you decided to keep my stuff. I was nearly worried.”

John half-smiled. 

The two sat down, John engrossing himself in a nearby book while he walked around the flat, inspecting. He had expected John to have moved his things, placing them in what most would call more practical locations. Instead, everything was left untouched, except for one thing.

“John? Is that my skull?”

“What? Oh- oh right yeah, Mrs. Hudson returned it. She said it was getting too painful to look at.”

“Speaking of,” Sherlock said, changing the subject matter. “Does she know?”

John slowly looked up from his book, a look of horror cascading across his face. Sherlock got his answer. Before either man had a chance to speak the door opened.

“Oh, John, there you are!” 

Ms. Hudson shuffled into the room with a tray of tea, setting it down on the end table all the while disregarding (or just not noticing) Sherlock’s presence. 

“Here you go, dear- I must be off! Tonight is Canasta and I can’t be late.” 

As soon as she appeared, she had disappeared out the door. 

“Another time?” John asked.

“Another time.” 

The two chuckled before Sherlock had realized that there were two teacups on the tray. He smiled to himself slightly. John held up a cup.

“Tea?”

Sherlock, who would have otherwise passed up on the offer, took the tea happily. They sat in silence for a moment before John said,

“So how is it?”

“Hm?”

“Being back and all,” John took another sip of tea. “It must be a lot, considering how much you don’t like the spotlight sometimes.”

“I’ve learned to live with it,” Sherlock sat back in his chair and looked out the window solemnly. “Granted I don’t pay too much attention anymore.”

Sherlock really hadn’t been paying any attent to what was happening regarding him, he spent most of his time preoccupied with things like where his belongings were, getting basic necessities like credit cards back up and running and so on. It struck him as odd, but a great sum of money was inserted into the card just as it was back up. Sherlock could only have expected it to be Mycroft. For what reason was a mystery even to him. 

“We could have a terrorist attack this very moment, and the headline would be something like ‘Detective back from the dead! Also, there was a terrorist attack but look who’s back!’”

Sherlock laughed wholeheartedly at the joke. He hadn’t even begun to express how much he’d missed John. Day in, day out with nobody to talk to except for himself drove him nearly insane. Thankfully during the time John was away, he had worked on breaking the habit just enough not to make anything seem out of the ordinary. He looked back over at John, who was smiling fondly and laughing. For a moment, time stood still- without any reason. 

“Sherlock? You alright?”

“Yes, why?” Sherlock said distractedly. 

“You’re staring at me strangely.”

“Am I?” Sherlock murmured, entirely preoccupied with what had happened only a few moments before. 

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“You’re still doing it.”

Sherlock broke himself from his trace, realizing what he had been doing. He smiled awkwardly.

“Sorry.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” John asked again, “you’ve been acting… distant.”

Sherlock frowned. 

“Yes, I’m fine- really I should be asking you-”

“You do,” John laughed, resting his chin on his open palm. “Every day.” 

“Really? I don’t notice.”

“Well, I do.”

The words of the women from the waiting room still managed to find their way into Sherlock’s head. He could’ve erased them if wanted, but nothing had ever stumped him like this before. Finding John? Easy, it was all there. But when it came to the notion of love, it wasn’t all there. It never had been. 

“I met a woman in the waiting room,” Sherlock said suddenly. “While I was there.”

“Oh really? So like… a-?”

“No, not a love interest,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A wise man.”

“But you just said it was a woman?”

“It was- listen- that isn’t the point. In every story, there’s always a harbinger of knowledge. Someone who gives advice that helps the hero through their quest.”

John stared, obviously confused. Sherlock continued.

“This woman, the wise man, told me some things that have stuck with me for many weeks, and I have no idea why I’m telling you all this,” Sherlock finished suddenly, slouching back into his chair. John furrowed his brows. 

“Well, now I’m curious, what did she tell you?”

“I mustn’t tell.”

“You ‘mustn’t tell’ a lot of things nowadays, and look how that ended up?” John said quietly, as if to himself. Sherlock sighed.

“John, believe when I tell you it might not be in either our best interests that I tell you. Not until I know.”

John huffed. 

“Fine. Promise to tell me at some point?”

“I swear on my life.”

“No, no swear on something else.”

“What?”

“Swear on something else.”

Sherlock, confused, pondered for a moment. 

“I swear on Mycroft’s life.”

John chuckled. “That’s good, yeah.”

Sherlock smiled. For the rest of the day, the two sat, talking, catching up on one thing or another all the while words shot through Sherlock’s head. It wasn’t until around dark that something unexpected happened. It was a normal circumstance, Sherlock said something so entirely self-centered and idiotic that John had no choice to laugh. Mid-laugh, while John was smiling from ear to ear a sentence, unintentional and completely random, found its way into Sherlock’s head. 

_ I love you.  _

He stopped smiling, wide-eyed at the words that formed. John seemed to notice, as he stopped laughing. 

“Sherlock? Everything alright?”

Sherlock stood up quickly, unable to handle the revolution. Or maybe he could’ve, but he didn’t want to try. 

“I erm- I need to do something real quick, feel free to watch telly, I’ll be a moment,” He said, hurrying out the room. He didn’t even want to stop to see the look on John’s face. 

…

Now, there were two things that John could do in said situation. He could sit down, kick back and watch the news or what have you, or he could follow Sherlock and see what on God’s green earth got into him. One might be a safer option, but one would leave him with a lighter conscience for sure. He sprang up, following Sherlock right to his bedroom door. He knocked.

“Sherlock?”

“Go away- uh- I’m naked.”

“You are not, now open the door.”

“Doors are relative.”

“That makes no sense- open the door or I will kick it down!”

“Okay! Alright, just give me a moment”

The doorknob jiggled, and a very-disheveled Sherlock opened. John’s face automatically softened. 

“Can I come in?”

Sherlock stepped aside, motioning for John to enter. He walked in, realizing that he hadn’t ever actually been all the way inside Sherlock’s room. He sat down on the bed gingerly. 

“Now, can you tell me what’s going on?” He asked. Sherlock sat down on the bed next to him.

“I’m not quite sure how you’ll react if I tell you,” Sherlock said slowly. John rolled his eyes.

“I can handle it, trust me.”

“But can I?”

“What?”

Sherlock stopped as if thinking about what he was going to say. John swallowed, wondering what on earth could be so heavy even the silver-tongued himself was at a loss. What on earth could it be? He had a terminal illness? Moriarty was alive? 

“Erm, read any good books while I was away?”

“Sherlock…”

“Right, right, sorry. God, this would be so much easier if I felt things more regularly.”

“Just start from the beginning,” John said calmly. “I have all night.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, then began to explain what had happened in the waiting room. From the woman asking if he loved him, to Sherlock having a series of internal crises, and so on so forth. John stared, wide-eyed. He wasn’t put off or anything, more astounded than anything. His face must’ve been a bit too surprised, as Sherlock stopped himself and frowned. 

“I’m sorry, I-”

“No, no don’t be sorry. I’m not mad or anything, I just didn’t expect it,” John said truthfully. Sherlock didn’t seem any more at ease, however. 

“Earlier, when I had run off without warning, I had reached erm, a conclusion of sorts.”

John’s heart leaped, something that didn’t happen too frequently. 

“I concluded that John I… I think I love you. And if it really took being away for so long to realize then it would have been worth it.”

John’s mouth fell open ever slightly, while Sherlock grew a deep shade of red. Before he could say anything he laughed breathlessly, maybe from shock or relief or both. 

“Wow, Sherlock I… God…” 

He put his hands on his face, trying to hide the smile he wore. 

“I love you too,” he said muffled into his hands. 

“Wait, wait what? You’re serious?”

John uncovered his face, taking a deep breath. His face hurt from smiling too much, but he didn’t care. 

“Ever since the first night we met, I fell totally and helplessly in love with you. I never knew, I never  _ dreamed  _ you felt the same so I buried it. Like I always have,” he explained. 

“Wow, John, I… this is going much better than expected,” Sherlock laughed. “I always had feelings, I think I just valued our friendship so much I suppressed everything. I didn’t even know what love was when I met you- but our time together or apart I knew something was there. It wasn’t until now I could put a name to it.”

John couldn’t stop himself from smiling at Sherlock’s rambling, it was as if someone attached strings to the corners of his mouth and tied them up to the ceiling. 

“This is… wow, I can’t believe-”

He was cut off as Sherlock’s lips pressed against his. He was surprised at first, but after realizing just what had happened he slowly melted into it. Sherlock pulled back, only inches away from John’s face. 

“John Watson, you have no idea how long I wished to do that,” he said lowly, his breath warm against John’s face. 

John gazed up at him, and their eyes locked momentarily. He had expected the trademark look of intensity to show through, the darting, clever eyes that could pick apart anything in their sight. But instead, there was what John could only describe as soft, heartfelt kindness so unnatural yet so welcoming. After a moment, the space between them was closed and they were back in the same place as before. It felt almost natural, John pressed up against Sherlock, hands resting gently on one other. It wasn’t overly passionate, nor under, but a perfect mix between. His hands, in the heat of the moment, found their way into Sherlock’s curls while Sherlock placidly wrapped his arms around John. 

After what seemed like a blissful eternity, the two found their places laying down on opposite ends of the bed, heads next to each other. For a while, they rested in comfortable silence, John listening to Sherlock’s steady breath as he stared up to the ceiling. Soon they found themselves in a conversation of nothing in particular. Life, the universe, you name it.

“Who would’ve believed coincidence could’ve led us here?” John said sleepily. 

“Hm? And what do you mean by that?”

“Well, us both talking to Mike the same day, looking for the same thing.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy, as I’ve always said,” Sherlock lolled his head to the side, smiling at John. “Everything has its reason.”

“Really? So like, fate??” John asked, rolling his head over just enough for the two’s noses to brush. 

“Like fate. Everything that happened recently, as terrible as it sounds happened all for a reason. You, you’re alive for a reason.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Sherlock slipped an arm under John, and wrapped another around him, pulling him in close to himself. “And for whatever that reason might be, I think one is that I need you. I always have, and I always will.”

John buried his head into Sherlock’s chest, trying his best not to break down in tears. Instead, he focused on Sherlock’s breathing and the warmth radiating from his body. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Sherlock hummed. John closed his eyes, smiling.

“I’m glad I stayed.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So sorry for the late update, I was really trying to get ahead on my online classes instead of working on this during school per the usual. It's 11PM right now, my dad just came in and asked to go black Friday shopping and I'm officially scared because I have an unofficial coffee shop/school work date in the morning with the BF so let's see where this goes.
> 
> Part 4? Let me know! I can end it here, but if you guys want more then by god I'll deliver!
> 
> I also just want to point out these chapter names are actually based on songs, which I do recommend because they are really beautiful!

**Author's Note:**

> So, guys, I got deduced yesterday. I met a real-life Sherlock Holmes and I'm just... not okay. She was explaining how she like, analyses people and puts facts about them together to find out more about them and I was "OMG WHAT" and SHE DID IT TO ME AND I WAS SO SCARED BUT INTRIGUED!!!
> 
> She actually said I stuck out to her, as most people had negative dominant traits but I didn't seem to (besides like being insecure and stuff) but she explained I hold my emotions in a lot so it doesn't affect others, and do what I can to make other people feel happy and included. Then she said when she first you know, deduced me she couldn't find anything bad. Like I was perfect. WHAT? ME? And she was telling me all these other things about myself that are true! (I think) and it was just insane. I showed her an episode and she was in love and kept noticing how alike she and Sherlock were. So yeah that's a neat little story to help ease the pain of my heavy angst. Tell me if you like it! There will be more to come, of course, lol. Two parts hopefully.


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